Rock a Little
by images-in-words
Summary: Young Broadway star Rachel Berry returns to her hometown of Lima, Ohio, fresh off a triumphant two-year run in a revival of "Funny Girl." She's ready to do something else now, but what? Then she attends a gig by an all-female rock band at a local club and her next move becomes clear: it's time for her to put aside the Broadway standards and...rock a little. (AU)
1. Chapter 1

**Rock a Little**

 _ **chapter one**_

The beautiful young woman with pink streaks shot through her blonde hair fidgets as she flops down on her bed, her full lips curled up in a sardonic, teasing smile as she tries to affect an air of bored indifference. A purple bubble swells in front of her face, then collapses with a pleasingly loud _pop._

"Are you _sure_ you know what you're doing, Abrams?" she asks, her smile growing. "How can you tell that camera is even switched on?"

"I can tell because I'm majoring in film and showing my professors that I know how to operate a camera was pretty much the first thing I had to do when I started classes," her guest replies, rolling his eyes behind the square-framed glasses precariously perched on his nose. He knows she's just trying to get a rise out of him; it's a game they've played as long as they've known each other. "Besides, _you_ don't need to know how things work on this side of it anyway. All you need to do is to stand or sit or do whatever you like while you talk into the lens and let me capture the magic."

She blows another purple bubble, nods in approval when it pops louder than the last one. "Right. You know, you're pretty full of yourself for a first-year student."

Now he bristles. He hates that she knows it's a weak spot, that he can't help his reaction to her relentless needling. She's way too good at it. "A first-year student who's _also_ the winner of the prestigious Motta Award Scholarship for Motion Picture Arts." He winces at the self-importance of the statement, the slightly whiny tone of his voice as he says it. He tries to affect a more serious, professional tone to cover his embarrassment. "Now come on, Quinn. Work with me, while we've still got some good light here."

The girl just laughs, adding a point to the tally she's been keeping in her head since they started playing this game. She's enjoying this. Santana, on the other hand, absolutely _hates_ it when Artie's around with his camera and his junior Scorsese attitude, but Quinn loves punching holes in his ego. His ego, and only that; Santana would actually punch _him_ and walk away. She knows that Artie knows this; she's seen him cringe with fear at the girl's menacing glare.

"You know you only got that scholarship because you took Sugar's picture one day and told her she was pretty," she continues, noting with delight how Artie's expression always twists at the mere mention of Sugar's name. _All this time, and he still hasn't gotten over what happened? Well, that's what you get when you make assumptions._ "That girl needs compliments like a fish needs water. Anytime somebody's the least bit nice to her she, like, buys them a car or gets her father to give them a scholarship."

She knows, word for word, the defense that inevitably follows the mention of The Hook-Up That Wasn't, or: The Motta Affair.

"First of all, Sugar _is_ pretty, and second of all, I had no idea who her father was or what he likes to do with his millions when he's not counting them. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, and _bam!_ That's how destiny works."

"I don't believe in destiny," Quinn says airily, waving a dismissive hand. If she hadn't quit cigarettes, this is where she'd take a long, slow drag and then exhale an even longer trail of gray smoke. "I believe we make our own luck, blaze our own paths in life - _if_ we've got the guts to defy society's expectations and go for what we really want."

"Society's expectations? Or your parents'?" he says, knowing it's her one sore spot, regretting the words as soon as they get past his lips. Her eyes go ice cold. If Santana is scary, Quinn is downright _terrifying._ Maybe he should have interviewed Tina instead. She doesn't say much, but at least she doesn't make him fear for his life on a semi-regular basis.

"Fuck you, Artie," she growls. "You don't know my parents. You don't know _anything._ "

Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath, counting to ten before daring to open them again. It's not his fault, she realizes. He really _doesn't_ know. How could he, when it's the one thing she refuses to talk about with anyone outside of her small, tight circle of friends and confidants? She likes him well enough, thinks he could one day achieve that privileged status, but not yet. For now, she'll keep him just on the edge of things; not quite in, but not all the way out either.

She resumes that familiar air of bored insouciance, and Artie knows he's been forgiven, without her saying anything. It's part of the mystery of Quinn Fabray, the thing that makes her such a fascinating subject. He hopes that one day she'll let him in on the secret, silent pain that lives in her green and gold eyes, but for now, it's only rock and roll, and he's got no choice but to like it. He'd had no idea what he was getting into when Sugar had talked him into filming the band as his documentary project for school, but even if he had, he thinks, he probably would have signed on anyway. After all, it's not every day a guy gets to film the day to day workings of an all-female rock band that's _this close_ to really getting somewhere, out of this little corner of Midwestern American suburban hell. And someday, when they finally do it, when they're headlining Madison Square Garden or the L.A. Forum, he'll be able to say he knew them way back when, back at the beginning, when it all started.

 _If Santana doesn't kill me first_ , he thinks with a sigh.

"Well, camera boy? Are we going to do this or not? Light's fading fast," she teases.

"We are, and it is. So, Quinn Fabray, talk to me. Tell me about life, love and rock 'n' roll."

Her eyes light up like candles, and this time, the smile on her face is genuine. The camera loves her.

"What do you want to know?"

* * *

Santana's hunched over her guitar, furiously jotting notes onto a sheet of staff paper, while Tina's on the couch trying to decide which anime DVD she's going to watch next. It's Sunday, their favorite day of the week – no work at Will's House of Music, so there's no need for them to do anything other than lounge around in their tank tops and Batman shorts here at the palatial Casa de Lopez, working on new songs and having breakfast at noon. Random notes, incomplete riffs and hummed melodies waft aimlessly through the air, and Santana shakes her head, cursing at the song's stubborn refusal to get written already. She's been at it all morning, ever since she woke up with a half-formed idea in her head, and Tina knows she won't stop until it's complete.

Tina takes up her bowl of cereal and continues to peer at the blurbs on the backs of the DVD cases, munching quietly so as not to disturb Santana while she's writing. She knows very well how upset Santana gets whenever anyone interrupts her, and would much rather not incur another verbal lashing, thank you. The girl is so intense when it comes to music - it kind of awes and scares Tina at the same time. She's never seen anyone work so hard. It pays off, though, when she smiles wide and her face just glows with happiness when the song finally comes together.

An angry chord rings out. Santana throws her pencil down in disgust.

" _Fuck!"_ she screams, running her hands through her hair in exasperation. _"_ Why is this so goddamned hard? It's rock and roll, not fucking rocket science!"

Pushing the DVDs aside, Tina tilts her head, considering the question. It's Santana's way of asking for help, but even so, it's dangerous to approach her when she's like this. You never know how she's going to respond.

"T, go get your bass. Maybe we can tag-team this shit and beat it into submission," Santana requests after a few moments. She feels like a guitar string under too much tension: one more twist of the tuning peg and she'll snap. Tina's really good at seeing what she can't, where something needs to ascend or descend, speed up or slow down, et cetera, et cetera. Santana's self-taught, figuring out the songs on her parents' classic rock albums by ear on the guitar her dad gave her when she was twelve, but Tina's the prodigy in this band. Sure, she's a moody, mysterious all dressed in black Goth girl now, but once upon a time Tina Cohen-Chang was a legit grade school violin prodigy who started playing at, like, two years old or something. It's been a while since Santana's heard the story.

She sends Tina a weak but grateful smile when the other girl rises from the couch to retrieve her bass from its stand across the room, appreciating the way she doesn't say anything, just gets up and does it. That's how Tina is. She knows exactly how to gauge Santana's moods, how to navigate through the minefield of her volatile temper. If Quinn is ice and Santana is fire, then Tina is definitely the earth in their elemental trio, solid and nurturing, a foundation for growth.

Tina plugs her bass in, pulls up a chair and sits next to Santana. The DVDs will have to wait.

* * *

Rachel Berry lies on the old, still comfortable bed in the room where she'd grown up, reveling in the fact that she's finally gotten a moment to breathe for the first time in two years. Her life has been a whirlwind since the last time she was here in her fathers' house, and it's a comfort to know that while so much else has changed, her room is exactly as she left it, down to the "Good Luck!" card Finn had given her the night before she'd gone to New York, still standing in its place on her desk. It's a remnant of a different time, a different world. A time and place in which she herself had been different, too.

One of his favorite songs had included a lyric that went, "Changes aren't permanent – but change is." Neither of them had known, _could_ have known, how true that really was.

Rachel thinks back to the last time she'd seen him, after the going away party her dads had thrown for her, just before she left for school at the prestigious New York Academy for the Dramatic Arts, or NYADA for short.

She pushes herself up, crosses the room to the desk. A sad smile crosses her face as she runs the tip of her finger along the edge of the card. She picks it up, gazes at it, lost in emotion. On the front, it's got the words "GOOD LUCK!" written in big, brightly colored letters above a fluffy brown cartoon teddy bear, holding a bouquet of flowers; and on the inside, more brightly colored words proclaim that "We all know you can do it!" Surrounding them are Finn's scrawled signature, Kurt's impossibly neat one, and the rather more ordinary signatures of Finn and Kurt's parents, Carole and Burt, and of course her two dads, Hiram and Leroy, and in the remaining blank space, a little message from Finn. It's short but sweet, and even though she's long had it memorized, she reads it aloud anyway.

 _Rachel – I never understood why they always say 'break a leg' to actors before they go on stage, because you need both legs to stand up there, but here I am saying it anyway. Kurt tells me it's a tradition in the theater, a way to say 'good luck,' but even though this card has those words printed in big letters on the front, I know you don't actually need it. Luck, I mean. You're the most talented person I've ever known, and Broadway's not going to know what hit it when you get there. I'm so proud of you. Can't wait to be there at your first opening night! - Love, Finn._

Her eyes blur with tears. She hastily puts the card back on the desk, not wanting the ink to be smeared by a fallen teardrop. He was her best friend, her biggest cheerleader besides her dads, always there to give her a hug when she needed one, and the occasional kick in the ass when she needed one of those too. Rachel knows that Finn had loved her, had been _in love_ with her, and even though he had been his usual understanding self when she'd told him why she could never love him back – not like _that,_ anyway – it still makes her a little sad when she remembers the way the light in his eyes had dimmed, the way his large body had deflated when she'd said the words. It was the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do, but after that one moment of hurt and sadness, he'd given her that lopsided grin of his and said, "Okay," and just like that, everything really was okay.

The next day, he'd given her a rainbow pin to show his support, and she'd pinned it to a piece of pink notepaper and taped it to the inside of her locker. Now she carries it in her purse always as a silent reminder of him, and her gratitude for the gift of his loyalty and encouragement.

* * *

It's still hard for her to believe that he's gone now, vanished from their lives in an instant. His large presence had become an aching void the moment she'd learned that he'd succumbed to the injuries he'd sustained in the act of pushing some kids out of the way of a car that was traveling too fast down the normally calm side street on which he and Kurt lived. The memory of Kurt's frantic, sobbing voice on the phone, informing her in jagged, broken bursts that his brother had passed away, is forever seared into her mind, and as it rises now, she hugs herself to ward off the chill of sadness it always brings.

Finn himself had just settled in at Ohio State on a football scholarship – he'd been home for the weekend when the accident happened - but they'd still planned for him to visit her in New York to see her perform at her very first NYADA showcase the very next week. Instead, she'd swallowed her tears, sang her songs, accepted her second place award, then taken a cab to the airport almost immediately afterwards. Her memory of the flight to Columbus is still, even now, just a blur of sobs and restless, fitful moments of sleep.

And after the funeral, when she'd finally gotten a moment to herself, Rachel had sat in this same room, on this same bed, and dedicated her career to the memory of her best friend. She had sworn that his name would be the first one she would mention in her thank-you speech whenever she won her first Tony Award.

Neither of them could have imagined that she'd get to fulfill that promise a mere two years later. Two years that had flown by in a mad whirlwind of classes, performances, awards and auditions that had culminated in the improbable winning of the lead in a Broadway revival of her all-time favorite musical, _Funny Girl,_ and then the even more improbable Tony for Best Lead Actress in a Musical. The actual moment when it happened was both like and completely unlike the dreams she'd had of winning a Tony since she was old enough to know what the prestigious theater awards were. Her fathers had been seated to one side of her, Kurt had been on her other side, and when Neil Patrick Harris had torn open the gold envelope and announced her as the winner, they'd practically had to lift her from her seat and push her into the aisle to begin her walk towards the stage, to the realization of her destiny.

She had just become a Tony Award winner, but she was also a nineteen year old girl, and when she'd nearly tripped over her long gown as she'd made her way up the stairs, somewhere in the back of her mind she had known that there would be as many pictures of her almost face-planting at NPH's feet as there would be of her accepting the statuette and thanking Finn Hudson for everything.

* * *

So much has happened in these last two years, she can hardly believe it. Two years of a relentless, grueling eight shows a week schedule, singing her heart out for packed houses and adoring fans. Two years of learning and adapting to being not only in the Broadway spotlight, but in the media spotlight as well. First she was a New York musical theater celebrity, and then a national celebrity, appearing in _Time_ and _Vanity Fair,_ being interviewed by Ellen and Jimmy and Stephen, simultaneously receiving praise for being an 'out' star on Broadway and condemnation for not being 'out' enough to satisfy some people's idea of what such a star should be. Through it all, she cultivated a charming, personable and slightly self-deprecating public persona even as she hid the private pain of a lonely personal life.

It had been hard for her, growing up as an intense and somewhat socially awkward child in small town Lima, Ohio. She'd had few friends growing up, the result of a combination of her single-minded dedication to her future career on Broadway, her lack of social awareness, and a personality that most of her peers would describe as 'self-involved' at best and 'grating' or 'obnoxious' at worst. She couldn't help the fact that she was more talented than everyone else, and a good deal more intelligent as well; nor could she change the fact that she'd known what she wanted to do with her life since she was three years old, even if she'd been inclined to do so. She just wasn't that great around people who didn't share her interests, and where she grew up, that wasn't many. Even so, although Kurt was just as interested in theater, he had seen her more as competition than as a friend. Thus it was that for some time, Finn hadn't just been her best friend; he'd been her _only_ friend. It was only through comforting and consoling Kurt over the loss of his brother that Rachel had become close with him.

(Although, in retrospect, it really hadn't been the best idea to come into school affecting a different accent every week for a month while explaining to anyone within earshot that it was part of her study of the great Meryl Streep's acting technique.)

Romantic relationships had been just as difficult for Rachel to establish. After she'd graduated from high school and gone off to NYADA, she'd arrived at school knowing who she was and what she wanted in terms of a relationship, but without the faintest clue as to how to make it happen. As with many things, she was naive to the ways of sex and love, and lost her virginity at a party to an older girl who had plied her with sweet words and cheap alcohol, then left her without so much as a 'good morning' the next day. It had been a bitter but valuable lesson to learn. She'd called her dads crying, saying that she wanted to go home, that she hated it there, but they'd managed with their trademark saint-like patience to calm her down and talk her through the hurt and shame, and from then on she was a little more wary and a little less trusting, though she still believes in seeing the good in everyone.

And now she's here, taking her first real break in two years, fresh off her contract with the producers of _Funny Girl._ They'd wanted her to extend it for another year, but truth be told, she's more than a little burned out, and ready to do something else. The problem is, she's not sure what that something else is going to be just yet. Shannon Beiste and Sue Sylvester, her agents back in New York, have secured a lucrative recording contract for her with a major label, so it seems that doing an album would be the logical next step. She's always written her own songs in addition to learning all the requisite classics and standards, and the idea of recording and releasing them is kind of exciting to her; yet she's still a little insecure about her writing, wonders if they're really strong enough to stand on their own, in comparison to the legendary songs she's been belting out on stage every night for the past two years.

The battle of desire versus distance being waged in her head is threatening to drive her crazy. She needs to get out, distract herself from all these conflicting thoughts, deflect the sadness of all these memories. She puts the card face down on the desk, symbolically turning it away from her, if only for a little while.

Picking up the entertainment section of the _Lima Times_ that she'd brought upstairs with her – she's got an interview scheduled with them next week – Rachel flips through the pages in search of some mindless entertainment. There's nothing playing in the movie theaters that interests her, so she checks to see if there are any good clubs in the area where she might at least dance and drink a little.

(Just a little, though – that unfortunate experience at NYADA has always stayed with her.)

Then she sees it: a small, square ad for someplace called "Will's House of Rock." The goofy name brings an odd smile to her face; it sounds like the kind of place Finn would have _loved._ It seems like a sign, strangely enough. Peering down at the ad, her interest is piqued still further when she reads that there's an _all-female_ rock band playing a mix of covers and original material there...when? Tomorrow night? She lifts her eyes heavenward and mouths a silent _thank you_ to Finn, thinking maybe it's his hand that's guiding her somehow.

Perfect.

Rising from the bed, she turns to her closet, where her clothes were hung with great care only a few hours ago, and bites her lip as she tries to figure out whether she brought anything that might be appropriate to wear to a place like "Will's House of Rock."


	2. Chapter 2

**Rock a Little**

 _ **chapter two**_

Rachel giggles at her reflection in the mirror. She's having a hard time believing that the girl staring back at her with an expression of bewildered awe, the girl in the top with the plunging neckline and the skin-tight black spandex pants, is actually _her_. She's learned enough about makeup at school to know how to create smoky, alluring eyes, how to accentuate the shape of her full, pouty lips, but the tips she's gotten from Kurt have really put her look for tonight over the top. After spending the previous night playing board games and watching her opening night performance of _Funny Girl_ on DVD with her dads, she's more than ready to take a night for herself and cut loose, at least as much as it's possible to do here in Lima. She's got a feeling that it's going to be a good night.

When she struts into the living room, the shocked looks on her fathers' faces send her into such a paroxysm of laughter that she has to sit down to catch her breath. Not that it's easy to do in these curve-hugging pants, but somehow she manages.

"My God, Leroy," her father Hiram exclaims to his husband, whose jaw still hasn't come back up off the floor. " _Stop._ You're embarrassing our little girl."

"I don't see a little girl here, Hi," he replies tartly. He turns to his daughter with an expression of such grave concern that's so ludicrous it almost sets her off once again. "Rachel, sweetheart, _where_ did you get those clothes? Does Pat Benatar know you've raided her wardrobe?"

She rolls her eyes, drawing a mildly disapproving glare from her father, which she pointedly ignores. "Oh, please, Daddy. Remember when I auditioned for _Grease_ at NYADA, only to be told by the director that he didn't think I 'looked like a Sandy?' This is the outfit I wore for that enjoyable, albeit unsuccessful, audition."

"I don't remember Sandy looking quite like...like _that_ either," Leroy frowns.

"Sure you do," Hiram offers, amused by his husband's dramatic behavior. _And they say our daughter gets it from me._ "At the end, when she and Danny sing _You're the One that I Want?_ She's got an outfit just like that."

Leroy's frown deepens. Rachel tries and fails to stifle a chuckle as Hiram winks at her, then schools his face to a more solemn expression when Leroy nearly catches him.

"You – you _condone_ this?" he asks, rounding on his husband. Hiram just shrugs in reply.

"Oh, come on, Daddy. I'm a big girl now. If I'm old enough to win a Tony Award, I'm certainly old enough to dress up for a night out at a club."

"She's right, Lee. Let her have her fun," Hiram says. Apparently he needs to break out the private photo albums that show what he and his husband used to wear for their nights out back in their younger days, just to remind him. "She'll be back to going to bed early every night because she has a show the next day soon enough."

Rachel winces at this, feeling guilty that she hasn't yet discussed with them the idea of taking a little time away from the stage to record an album. She's barely even talked about it with Sue and Shannon, but her dads are still her first and best advisers. Fortunately, no one catches it, and Rachel is able to disguise her momentary discomfort with a beaming 'show smile.'

Hiram returns the smile, and Leroy finally softens, not immune to his daughter's ability to charm. "And besides, I think she looks, as the kids say these days, pretty hot. No doubt every young lady in the place will be either jealous or interested."

Blushing, Rachel cries out, "Dad!" As she covers her face with her hands, Leroy turns to his husband and says through a smug grin, " _Now_ who's being embarrassing?"

Having endured quite enough, Rachel stands, huffs and says, "Bye, Dads. See you later. _Don't_ wait up." Moments later, she's out the door and in the car, heading out into the promise of the waiting night.

* * *

Show nights are always nerve-wracking for Santana. Her gut twists, her heart pounds and her hands sweat. Tina's like a freaking Zen master, so calm and cool and collected that it drives Santana crazy – she doesn't even know where the girl is right now - while Quinn affects her usual pose of indifference, blowing bubbles and tapping her drumsticks against every available surface in their small but comfortable backstage dressing room.

Will Schuester, the owner/proprietor of "Will's House of Rock" and "Will's House of Music," is here tonight, accompanied by his tall, dark and beautiful wife Shelby. That's not a surprise - he's usually there for their shows - but Shelby's appearances are far more infrequent, drawing a raised eyebrow from Quinn and a shrug from Santana. Will's unfailingly positive, almost irritatingly cheerful personality has made him something of a mentor to hundreds of young musicians in the area over the years. They're always in the club begging for a gig, or in the store for a break on the price of a new amp, and Will's usually agreeable – provided they listen to his advice and promise to work hard afterwards. Of course, not all of them do, and so the wheat gets separated from the chaff pretty quickly.

Tina and Santana look at him as more like a peer or a friend, not just as their boss. He's always up for a discussion about their musical influences and ideas, generous with his time and honest in his thoughts. They may roll their eyes and chuckle over the man's undying love for classic 80s Journey hits, but damn if they don't invariably find themselves quietly singing the chorus to _Don't Stop Believin'_ at least a couple of times when he's around. Will revels in it, and they all share a good laugh over it every time.

Quinn sees him as more of a father figure, for reasons she doesn't like to discuss, but it's obvious that there's something deeper between them. The two of them have spent hours behind the closed door of his office at the club or the store, just talking in low, serious voices, and though Santana's loathe to invade her friend's privacy, she's heard Quinn crying softly behind those doors more than once, and Will consoling her, being exactly the kind and supportive adult male type she's always needed. Santana knows exactly why - but Quinn being Quinn, they rarely talk about it.

Tina appears out of nowhere at Santana's side, silent and sudden as a dark ghost, newly touched up blue streaks in her black hair fairly glowing, making Santana jump in surprise when she says, "I have a _feeling_ about tonight."

"Damn, Tina, don't fucking _do_ that!" she hisses, glowering at the placid expression on Tina's face, the calm in her obsidian eyes. Santana is certain she's had some ninja training. "And you always have a quote-unquote _feeling about tonight_ every time we play a show, and nothing different or unusual ever happens."

"That's true," Tina replies. "But this time...it's _different_ , somehow. Stronger. Like, something really big's being stirred up, right in the pit of my stomach."

"Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn't have eaten those goddamned spicy noodles earlier."

Tina shrugs off Santana's annoyance. She knows it's just a symptom of her pre-show nerves. "Whatever, San. Just watch. Tonight's going to be...I don't know, _special_ somehow. I can't explain it."

"You've been spending too much time with Artie," Quinn teases. "All that talk about _fate_ and _destiny_ and crap. If tonight's going to be _special" -_ she draws the word out - "it'll be because _we_ made it special by kicking outsize amounts of ass, not because of some mysterious outside force or event."

"We'll see." Tina is unmoved, even when Quinn taps her lightly on the arm with one of her drumsticks and Santana murmurs _whatever_. She doesn't care that the others don't agree with her; she knows what she knows, and she trusts her feelings. Always has, always will. After all, that's what got her here.

There's a knock on the door, and when Santana snaps, "Yeah?" Sam, their tech, cracks it open and pops his blond, blue-eyed head in through the opening. He gives them his trademark goofy smile and says, "Five minutes to stage, guys. It's gonna be a good show tonight - I can feel it."

Quinn gives him an incredulous stare, like he's just grown another eye, and Tina smiles wide as she hefts her bass. "See?" she says, pointing at him. "I'm not the only one."

"Um, I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam says, pouting at being left out of yet another inside joke. "Mike's got sound and Rory's handling lights tonight. And you now have _three_ minutes - so if you need to throw up, San, do it quickly."

"Yeah, yeah," Santana shoots back, dismissing him. "Get out of here before I start the evening's ass kicking with yours, Trouty Mouth."

He nods and hurries to his position behind the amps. He's got a pretty complex job, handling all the guitars and Quinn's sizable drum kit by himself, but they've worked together for long enough now that they don't actually worry about it too much anymore.

"Well, ladies. Shall we do this?" Quinn asks, cracking her gum and a smile at the same time. Her adrenaline's been pumping for a while already, but now it's spiked to a new level, as it always does right before they hit the stage.

Strapping on her guitar, Santana smiles back, her nerves all but gone when she hears the roar of the small but fierce crowd. She still can't believe that all these people are here just to see them play, to watch them do what they love more than anything else in the world.

Tina offers her fist. Santana bumps it with her own. The smile vanishes, replaced by the fierce Santana Lopez game face that they all know, love and fear.

"Yes," she replies. Will Schuester's voice, introducing them, is only a dim echo in the back of her head. The crowd grows even louder, impatient for the band to appear on stage. "We shall."

And then they're on. The crowd erupts in a thunderous roar. Quinn pounds out the intro beat to the first song, and there's no more thinking.

* * *

The place is small, hot, sweaty and very, very loud. Rachel's surrounded by a crush of long-haired guys and girls in denim and leather, hooting and hollering and calling out the band's name. She's got a big, beefy bouncer type guy named Dave using his large shoulders and elbows to carve out a path through the crowd for her, escorting her to a prime spot right up front, where she won't have to deal with some seven foot tall giant blocking her view. (Her fathers' insistence that she call the club ahead of time to let them know that the famous Rachel Berry was coming to the show has paid off handsomely.) She reminds herself to thank Will Schuester again when she meets him after the show, as he'd requested when she'd spoken with him earlier.

She's surprised when Dave parks himself right behind her so he can make sure no one tries to interfere with her in any way. She smiles her thanks at him, and he just shrugs back at her as if to say _Hey,_ _it's my job._

The second the band hits the stage, she's stunned both by the nearly overwhelming volume of the music and the remarkable attractiveness of the three young women playing it. In the theater, she's been around a lot of pretty, even sexy, women, but this trio is hotter than anything she's ever seen backstage on Broadway.

The guitarist, who's also singing lead, is a stunningly beautiful Latina in a scandalously short, tight sleeveless dress. Rachel's mesmerized by the girl's whipcord arms, the way her fingers dance up and down the neck of her guitar with amazing fluidity. Her long, dark hair flies around as she shakes her head in time with the thunderous beat, and when she plays a solo, it's as electrifying as the lightning that flashes in her eyes. Rachel blushes (although absolutely no one is looking at her) when she catches herself wondering what _other_ skills those magical fingers might possess.

The beat is generated by a pale blonde who's got movie-star looks and a smile of pure, incandescent joy, surrounded by an intricate assemblage of variously sized drums and cymbals. It's only when the light hits her a certain way that Rachel sees the streaks of pink woven through her tousled hair. This girl's arms are bare as well, revealed by a sleeveless T-shirt, and Rachel bites her lip at the play of muscle in her forearms as she bashes her way through each song with equal parts fury and finesse. Rachel's grown up on show tunes and pop songs, and this music is anything but that - yet she finds herself swept up in the energy, the sheer _power_ of it. As the set rolls along, she finds herself surprised to realize how complex and dynamic it actually is, driven by the percussive pixie with the incredibly quick hands.

Filling out the lower frequencies is an intriguing Asian whose blue-streaked hair is done up in pigtails on either side of her head. She sways behind her bass, her eyes closed in concentration even when she's singing harmony, nimble fingers plucking along, building sonic bridges between the guitar and drums. There's a lot going on in this music, Rachel realizes, and it's all being held together by this girl with blue eye shadow and black polished fingernails; without her, everything would fall apart. It's a high-wire juggling act they've got going on here, with a whole bunch of balls flying around, and yet not a single one ever gets close to touching the ground.

All too soon, the set ends, and Rachel's both exhausted and exhilarated. She's never experienced anything like this before, and she wants more than anything to experience it again. She feels dazed, almost as though she's been in a trance. So much so that it startles her when Dave takes her arm and shouts in her ear, "Come on. Will wants you to meet the band."

* * *

She's led to a door somewhere at the end of the labyrinthine backstage area with a sign on it that says "Office," and when she steps inside, Dave closes the door behind her. The walls are covered with posters and pictures. There's a curly-haired man in a vest sitting behind a large desk, and he instantly leaps up from his chair and greets her with a warm, broad smile, extending his hand for her to shake. She notices that there seem to be as many Broadway-related decorations as there are rock-related ones.

"Hi, I'm Will Schuester," he says. "It's an honor to meet you, Miss Berry. I'm a huge fan!" She takes his hand, and the smile and the excitement in his voice are so sincere that she knows he can't possibly be faking it. She likes him immediately.

"Please, call me Rachel," she replies, and she plops down into the chair he offers, happy to be off her feet. "It's nice to meet you too, Mr. Schuester. You have an amazing place here."

He resumes his seat, still smiling. "It's Will, and thank you. It's not often that we have Tony-winning Broadway stars in the audience at one of our shows. I realize it probably wasn't the sort of thing you're used to, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same."

"Oh my goodness, yes! Yes, I did," she laughs, still giddy with residual energy, and he laughs along with her. "Those girls...they're incredible. Very talented musicians, and excellent vocalists as well. I'm extremely impressed. I recognized a handful of songs that a...very good friend of mine used to play all the time, but most of the rest were completely unfamiliar. I take it those were original compositions of theirs?"

Will nods. "They were. Santana Lopez, the guitarist – of course you know their names, they introduced themselves during the show, sorry – she writes most of the music, sometimes collaborating with Tina. And Quinn writes the majority of the lyrics."

"Really?" Rachel's eyes widen in surprise. "That's very impressive. Beautiful _and_ smart." Her cheeks redden – she hadn't meant to speak that last part out loud.

If Will's caught her mistake, he's polite enough not to show it. "Yes, she is. Quinn is...very special. They all are. Young and incredibly talented. Meant for big things. Most of the bands around here – they're good, but they'll probably never play anywhere but here and the surrounding area, maybe in Columbus and Cleveland." He sighs, leans forward in his chair. His eyes kindle with fervor. "These girls, though...I really think they've got what it takes to go further. A _lot_ further. They're ready to record and release their own album. As you heard, they've got the songs. They've got the talent, and then some. All they need now is the right person - with the right connections - to take a chance and believe in them."

An idea forms in Rachel's head at Will's words. It's crazy, maybe impossible even, but...yes. It's _perfect_. She'll have to work to sell Sue and Shannon on it, of course, and her dads will think she's lost her mind. She doesn't care. The corners of her mouth quirk up in a wide grin.

"Mr. Schue – I mean, Will," she begins, and her heart flutters with excitement at the complete, utter _absurdity_ of it all. "I think -"

She's cut off by the opening of the office door behind her. An indignant female voice squeaks out, "Get your hands _off_ me, you big ape!" There's a light _smacking_ sound, as of a small hand impacting against someone else's flesh. Dave's deep, rumbling voice follows.

"Sorry, Will – Ms. Berry. I tried to stop her," he says, glaring at the woman. "I told her you were _busy_ , but -"

Will waves him to silence. Rachel turns to see a petite, red-headed woman with impossibly large, round eyes standing there in a business suit, wearing an amusingly offended look on her face.

"That's okay, Dave. Go and get the girls in here, would you? They should have been here already. Let me guess - Sugar and Kitty are with them, right?"

Dave nods and shrugs again, but this time there's an apologetic tilt of his head accompanying the gesture. "Yeah. Sorry."

"I thought so." Will sighs, chuckles, runs his hand through his hair. "Tell those two to wait in the dressing room and bring the girls along. All right? Go."

"You got it, boss." Dave says as he withdraws, closing the door. The red-haired woman blinks owlishly. Rachel thinks she looks like a delicate bird.

The woman's voice is soft and lilting when she finally speaks. "Mr. Schuester, my name is Emma Pillsbury. I spoke with your business partner, David Martinez, earlier today. Did he neglect to tell you I'd be here tonight?"

Will lowers his head, pinches the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes and face up in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Pillsbury. Apparently he did."

Emma nods, accepting the apology. Then, noticing the other woman in the room, she gestures with her head towards Rachel. "And who's _this?_ "

Rachel gets up, vaguely surprised that the woman doesn't know who she is. Then she reminds herself that not everybody follows the theater, although in her opinion everybody _should_. She feels slightly awkward in her outfit now, but doesn't let it show as she rises from the chair to formally introduce herself.

"Rachel Berry," she says, putting on her patented show smile and extending her hand for Emma to shake. "Tony Award-winning star of the recent - and highly successful - Broadway revival of _Funny Girl,_ and soon-to-be recording artist. Very pleased to meet you."

"Oh," Emma squeaks. _Yes. Definitely a bird._ A faint blush colors her cheeks as she delicately shakes Rachel's hand. As she does, Rachel notices that she's wearing white gloves for some reason she can't fathom at the moment. "Please excuse me. I didn't mean to be rude. I – I'm just here to discuss a very important business proposition with Mr. Schuester, and I - I didn't know you would be here."

"No problem whatsoever," Rachel replies airily, wanting to put Emma at ease. "I was just about to put forth an exciting idea of my own, actually, when -"

The door opens again, and Santana Lopez, Tina Cohen-Chang and Quinn Fabray pile into the office, laughing and smiling, their skin still glowing with sweat. They're even more beautiful up close.

"Hey, Will," Santana says, as loose and relaxed now as she was intense and dominant on stage. "What's up? Dave says you have somebody we needs to meet...?" Her voice trails off as she locks eyes with the short but stunning brunette standing by Will's desk. She's only vaguely aware that Quinn is staring at the girl too.

Will stands, bends his back for a moment before stepping out from behind the desk. "Santana, Quinn, Tina – this is Rachel Berry. She won a Tony Award for -"

"Hel- _lo,_ Rachel Berry. _"_ Santana cuts him off as she slides into Rachel's personal space. She raises one of Rachel's hands to her lips, placing a feather-soft kiss on it. "Santana Lopez. Happy to make your acquaintance."

Rachel giggles, both because of the kiss and the daggers Quinn is shooting at her band-mate with her remarkably green eyes. Her hand tingles where Santana's lips continue to linger.

"Cut it out, Lopez," Quinn growls, still glaring at Santana. "You just had your mouth all over the microphone for an hour and a half." The drummer's hazel eyes soften when she turns her attention to Rachel. "Sorry for my friend here. She's under a delusion that she's, like, _smooth_."

Santana drops Rachel's hand and backs away to stand next to Quinn once again. "Screw you, Fabray," she growls. "Just because _you_ have no game with the ladies doesn't mean you have to spoil things for _me_."

Tina laughs at her friends' ridiculous antics. This is why she's with Mike. He's not all that exciting, but at least he isn't crazy.

"And you're Tina," Rachel says, extending her hand. Tina shakes it. Her grip is very strong, but her smile is warm, open and friendly.

Ms. Pillsbury clears her throat, trying to refocus the room's attention on her. No one seems to notice though, so she clears it again - but her voice is just too soft. Frustrated, she shoots an angry look at Will, who at least has the decency to look sheepish as he clears his throat. That finally gets the attention of both Rachel and the band.

"Everyone, this is Emma Pillsbury. The text message I got from David while you were all getting to know each other tells me that she's with a major talent management company in New York." He looks at his phone. "SBSS Partners, is it? I think I've heard of them."

 _Oh my god,_ Rachel thinks. _This **cannot** be happening._

"Yes," Emma says primly. "I'm brand-new with the company, actually. This is my first assignment. I was told to check out the music scene here, since I'm originally from the area, and bring back a report regarding the best up and coming talent." The girls look at her with sudden curiosity on their faces. "I've been in lounges, cafes, clubs and community theaters of all sizes over the last couple of months, and this was the last place on my itinerary. My report is due in New York at the end of the week. I have a couple of offers pending, and I am prepared to make another one right now."

The girls erupt with competing shouts, each one of them clearly overwhelmed by a different emotion.

"Wait -" Quinn says, shaking her head, unwilling to believe that what she's thinking might actually be true. Hope and doubt war within her, and she finds herself trying and failing to slow the accelerated pounding of her heart.

"Hold up -" Santana follows, eyes narrowing, lips pursed. This Pillsbury woman seems nice enough, but her natural instinct is not to trust her, at least not right away.

"I _knew_ it!" Tina exclaims, smiling hugely, all her teeth showing. She jumps up and down like a giddy schoolgirl, oblivious to – or simply ignoring - the annoyed glare Santana's sending her way.

Will waves his arms helplessly in a doomed attempt to get the girls to calm down, but the more he tries, the louder they get. Ms. Pillsbury stands stock-still in the midst of the chaos, squeezing her eyes shut, shuddering with discomfort when Tina momentarily brushes against her.

Rachel huffs and stamps her foot. The situation is getting away from her. She needs to rein it in. Whatever Emma was about to say, Rachel is certain that it couldn't possibly be as amazing as what she's got in mind - a _nd damn it, **no one** upstages Rachel Berry._

"I want to hire you to help me write and record my album!" she shouts, her stage-trained voice easily projecting above the rest of the noise.

The silence that follows is so acute that the proverbial pin drop would sound like a nuclear explosion...

...until Tina turns to Quinn with a mocking grin, sticks her tongue out and and says, "I'm not gonna say _I told you so,_ but – yeah, I told you so."

* * *

 **A/N: Genuine and heartfelt thanks to all of you who have read, followed and favorited this little story so far. There's way more in store for Rachel and the talented trio of Tina, Quinn and Santana, so please stay tuned - and as always, please feel free to let me know what you like (or perhaps dislike) and what you think might be cool to see in future chapters, either in a PM or a review. Thanks again! You're all awesome. :^)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Rock a Little**

 _chapter three_

The silence in the room is so absolute, it's almost stifling. Rachel has never done well with silence; she hums to herself even in her most reflective, contemplative moods. Everyone's standing around awkwardly, staring at each other, staring at the ceiling, at the floor – no one can hold anyone's gaze for more than a few seconds. They're all overwhelmed with a myriad of emotions, knowing that what has just happened has the potential to change all of their lives forever. She wrings her hands, hoping that the girls will accept her offer, worrying that they won't for some reason she can't even begin to imagine.

There's excitement and fear, joy and apprehension visible in the eyes of each person in the room. Santana's dark orbs are filled with a wary trepidation mixed with quiet pride. She's concerned about the potential danger involved in signing on to be Rachel's band: the possible loss of credibility among their growing fan base, the danger of embarrassment if the project fails, and so on. Yet she also has to admit to herself, if not out loud just yet, that this could also be a tremendous boon to them. It's more exposure than they were ever going to get playing in Lima, Cincinnati and even Cleveland, for sure. After all, Rachel is America's sweetheart, the most beloved young star currently treading the Broadway stage, poised to soon dominate the nation's movie and TV screens. There are few such personalities in their age group these days, and hitching their wagon to her blazing trail could well be a smart move, despite the potential pitfalls.

 _Plus,_ says a small corner of Santana's mind, _the girl is pretty hot._

And with that, her decision is made.

"I'm in," she declares, breaking the oppressive spell of silence, hoping that she sounds more confident than she feels. "Let's do it."

"Yes!" Tina cries exultantly. She'd known that Santana was the X-factor in all of this. Quinn's go-with-the-flow personality meant that she would ultimately agree with whatever Santana decided, because she'd rather accept that than fight or argue over it. And as for herself, well, she had always been the true believer, the unshakable optimist, the one with the unflagging, indefatigable resolve. Let Santana worry, let Quinn float along with the tide – Tina's got enough belief for all three of them. She feels the tears spring to her eyes, lets them come streaming down. This is the happiest she's ever been, and she's reveling in it.

Santana turns to the last member of their trio, who's leaning against the wall as though she'd fall over if it wasn't there, drumsticks hanging loosely from her right hand. The normally cool and collected blonde's walls appear to be completely down, and her shock at this unexpected turn of events is plainly written on her beautiful, now even paler than usual, face.

"Quinn? What do you say? Ready to show Little Miss Broadway here how to rock?"

The drummer's far-away eyes clear – God only knows where her mind had been, although Santana thinks she has a fairly good idea – and the shocked expression morphs into a slow, soft smile of wonder. Santana's seen this one before. It's her favorite of Quinn's many smiles, the one that always makes her think of a sunrise breaking through the still-dark morning clouds.

And from the corner of her eye, she sees that Rachel's stepped back from the bear hug in which Tina had wrapped her, and is now staring at the way that smile is breaking across Quinn's face with her own look of wonder. Yeah, that smile can do that to you. Then Rachel feels Santana's eye on her and averts her gaze, her cheeks flushing with heat at being caught.

"Yeah," Quinn answers finally, in the soft, breathy half-whisper that's broken everybody's heart at least a thousand times since they've known her. "I...I think it could be fun."

Will Schuester laughs from behind his desk, then navigates his way around it to draw the three girls he's thought of as his own daughters into a fierce embrace. This is everything he could have hoped for them, and more. He doesn't know Rachel Berry, or Emma Pillsbury, but somehow, he knows that they're good people who can be trusted. He's got a certain sense about these things, call it instinct or whatever.

He doesn't feel Emma's curious eyes watching him as he whoops out a hearty "Congratulations!" to the girls, nor does he notice the tears glistening in Rachel's. All he knows, or cares about, right now is that a dream is on the cusp of being realized right here in his office, and he couldn't be happier if it was his own dream coming true and not that of the three girls simultaneously cheering, laughing and crying in his arms, their heads resting against his chest.

"Wonderful!" Emma's soft, but surprisingly firm voice rings out suddenly. "Now, as touching as this moment is – and it _is,_ it really, truly is – I have a contract here that needs to be signed, and a plane that needs to be caught if I'm going to get back to the office on time."

She places her briefcase on Will's desk, opens it, and retrieves from it three copies of the document and three pens. She hands the pens to Santana, Quinn and Tina, who take them with still-shaking hands as Rachel looks on with admiration for Emma's take-charge attitude. The woman may look fragile, but it's clear there's some spine beneath that mousy exterior.

The girls are still sniffling, trying to collect themselves as they receive their copies of the contract. They stare at the document as though they've each been given a priceless jewel or a bar of solid gold. It's kind of a surreal moment for them, one that's almost more than they can wrap their brains around.

"Now I don't expect you to sign this before you have a lawyer take a look at it, but I want to assure you that the terms and conditions laid out in it are fair and equitable," Emma says. She pauses to smooth down some imaginary wrinkles in her skirt, then continues. "My employers have earned a very positive reputation for treating their clients not as commodities, but as people with hopes and dreams that need and deserve care and nurturing, and I'm sure you're aware that's not always the case in the talent business."

She smiles her pleasant little smile and turns to close her briefcase and remove it from the desk with an odd kind of grace; her movements aren't smooth, exactly, but efficient nonetheless. Will watches her as though she's an exotic bird he's never seen before. When she notices the way he's looking at her, she tucks a stray lock of her red hair behind her ear and ducks her head, unused to receiving such interested scrutiny from someone she's just met.

"Well, I must be going. It was very nice meeting all of you. Oh, I almost forgot!" She reaches into her purse and removes a business card, hands it to Will without looking directly at him. "My contact information is all there: phone, cell phone, e-mail, everything. Feel free to get in touch if you have questions or concerns. I would shake your hands, but well, you know -" She shrugs helplessly. "No offense."

Will lets out a nervous chuckle as Rachel resists the urge to roll her eyes. She likes Emma, but finds the woman more than a little strange.

"None taken," he says, smiling. "It was nice to meet you. We'll, ah, we'll be in touch after my lawyer's looked over the contract."

Emma looks very serious when she replies, "We need an answer within the next two weeks. Time is a very precious thing in this business, as Ms. Berry here can attest. We don't have the luxury of wasting it. If you don't feel that my employers are the right ones to represent you, well, no harm, no foul – but honestly, you can't do better. You could also do a whole lot worse." She nods to Rachel. "Good luck with this new venture, wherever it leads. Goodnight, everybody."

And with that, Emma exits the office briskly, her long skirt swirling as the door closes behind her with a soft _click_.

There's a new focus, a sharp intensity in Will's tired but happy eyes as he fixes Rachel with a look that's not purely question or challenge, but a combination of both, she thinks. It's obvious that he's fiercely protective of these young women, that he'll do anything to keep them from getting hurt. It's just as clear that he's expecting her to do the same. She meets his gaze fully, answering his unspoken plea – _Don't let them down. Don't break their hearts. –_ with the most sincere look of affirmation she can muster, nodding to show her resolve.

 _I won't. I promise._

That seems to satisfy the older man, and he takes the pens and papers from the girls, places them on the desk behind him. He can't wait to call his wife and give her the great news.

His boyish smile stretches from ear to ear as he claps his hands together like a coach winding up a rousing pep talk to his team. "All right, there will be plenty of time to deal with all the business stuff. How about you guys go out and celebrate, huh? I know how hungry you all get after a show." He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and hands several bills to a beaming Santana. "You've earned this. Now go on, get out of here. I've got to call Shelby."

Rachel shuffles her feet, looks around the room. It's an awkward moment for her. She's never been great with first impressions, although she's gotten better as she's grown older and more mature. Many times, she's heard the criticism that she's self-absorbed, that while she may have musical perfect pitch, she's tone-deaf when it comes to the way she comes across to people when she first meets them. She wants Santana, Quinn and Tina to like her, the way she's always wanted so much for people to like her, but she doesn't want to come off like she's trying too hard, a charge that's been leveled at her all too many times in her life.

It comes as a surprise when it's Quinn's voice she hears, and not Will Schuester's, calling her name.

"Rachel – is it okay if I call you Rachel? Um, you're more than welcome to join us, if you like," the drummer gently implores. "I mean, if you're not busy or whatever."

"Yeah," Tina adds, grinning as she wraps an affectionate arm around Quinn's shoulders. "We're just going to get a couple of pizzas, maybe some beer, and go back to Santana's house to chill out. Come on, it'll be fun."

Rachel finds herself looking to Santana, figuring it's the caramel-skinned beauty who has the final say, since it's her house and all. She has the sense that it's her who's the leader of the group anyway, though it's obvious that she sees and treats the other two girls as equals in their musical partnership.

A wry smile quirks up the corners of Santana's lovely mouth, and Rachel's heartbeat quickens under the regard of these three gorgeous, amazingly talented young women.

"Seems to me that if we're going to be working together, we're gonna need to get to know each other," Santana observes, her smile widening, dark eyes sparkling she looks from the girls to Rachel and back again. "Might as well start now, right?"

She extends her hand to Rachel, who can't help but return Santana's smile with a thousand-watt smile of her own as she takes it, relishing the warmth, the way their hands fit together just so.

"I couldn't agree more," she says, not missing the way Santana's other hand is in Quinn's, whose other hand in turn is linked with Tina's. Then, turning to Will, she nods. "Mr. Schuester, it has been a pleasure to meet you. I'm looking forward to getting to know you better in the weeks and months ahead as we all join forces for this exciting new venture."

"The pleasure was all mine," he replies. "Now will you all _please_ get out of here so I can finally call my wife already? The later it gets, the more annoyed she's going to be when the phone wakes her up."

"All right, we're going already," laughs Quinn, and the sound is so musical that Rachel wants to hear it again and again. "Thanks, Will."

The man sits at his desk once again, phone already in hand. "Goodnight, girls. Rachel."

They remove themselves from the office at last, closing the door to give Will the privacy he's requested to speak with his wife. His voice is muffled and indistinct as they walk down the hallway to the dressing room, where their purses and the keys to Santana's van await. The gear has long since been broken down and loaded into the van by Mike, Sam and Rory, so there's no need to wait. A quick check of Santana's text messages tells them that Brittany and Sugar have bailed and gone home, so it's really going to be just the four of them celebrating tonight.

"Let's get our eat on already," Santana growls. "I'm freakin' starving!"

Quinn plants a kiss on her best friend's cheek. "Aw, poor baby. She gets cranky if she goes too long without pizza." Tina laughs as Quinn winks at Rachel and Santana's face darkens with a blush of good-humored embarrassment.

"The night is young, but aging by the second," the bassist says. She turns her gaze from her two bandmates and focuses on Rachel, who's still holding on to Santana's hand like it's her new favorite thing in the world. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

By the time they get to the parking lot, Tina's humming the intro to _Don't Stop Believin_ ', and no one seems to mind when Rachel softly begins singing the first verse as though she's always been there, as though they're longtime friends and not people she's just met. Somehow, it seems appropriate as they all pile into the van, where the volume increases and the song blossoms into life, soaring like their hearts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Rock a Little**

 _chapter four_

It's either very late on Saturday night or very early on Sunday morning in Lima as Santana's large black van glides through the empty streets back to Casa de Lopez. Her parents are away for the weekend, and though she's absolutely dying to tell them the news that they've just been hired by a famous Broadway star to co-write and record her upcoming first album of non-Broadway material, she knows better than to wake them at this hour. Rachel, on the other hand, had no problem calling her two dads to let them know she's left the car in the club parking lot and while she's sure nothing would happen to it if it stayed there overnight, she lets out a sigh of relief when they tell her that they'll come out with the other car and one of them will drive it back home.

When they ask why she left the car in the parking lot in favor of piling into a crowded, sweaty van with three girls she's just met, Rachel shrugs and tells them it's important to start bonding with the people you're going to be working with as soon as possible - and since this is the band she's chosen to hire as co-writers and performers on the album of original material she's decided she wants to do, staying overnight at their place seems like a perfect way to begin. The shouts of surprise and excitement that erupt from the two men are so loud that everyone in the van can hear them through her phone. Rachel's smile is so wide, her laugh so infectious, that the others can't help but join in, and for a good minute or two it feels almost as if the van is running on emotion rather than gasoline.

She promises her dads that they'll get to meet these 'amazingly talented girls' before she has to leave for New York again and beams at Quinn, who's sitting next to her with a dazed, giddy look on her face. Tina winks back at her with a smile in the mirror over Santana's head, while Santana tries hard to keep from bursting into tears and smashing them all into a tree. It's all very real to Rachel, but to the other three young women traveling on the nearly empty late night / early morning road back to Lima, this feels very much like a dream – especially to Santana, whose mother happens to be a total Broadway freak, and a huge fan of one Rachel Berry in particular. The memory of Maribel Lopez calling Rachel 'the greatest young talent to emerge on Broadway since Streisand' bursts to the front of her mind, and she's glad that no one can see the blush of embarrassment on her face in the darkness of the van.

(Not that she would ever share _that_ little tidbit of Lopez family information with the others, of course.)

Tina's phone rings, and the sudden illumination of her screen brings them all out of the momentary quiet of their shared reverie.

"It's Mike," she says by way of explanation, though everyone but Rachel already knew that. "Hey. You going home, or do you want to come over to Casa de Lopez to unwind a little?" she asks, sticking out her tongue at Quinn's rolled eyes. "Sugar and Kitty are following you? _Shit_. Can't you lose them?" She sighs, but there's no real anger in it; this is the usual game they play. Santana shakes her head, but she, like Quinn, is too happy to be bothered by the silliness.

Rachel enjoys the ease with which the three friends communicate, the wordless banter that flows between them in a silent, secret language of hands and eyes and facial expressions. A simple look from Santana sends Quinn into gales of laughter, which cuts off just as suddenly at a gesture from Tina, who's still on the phone with Mike.

"Okay, _fine_ ," she says. "They can come too. Just let them know that we have a special guest with us, so they can't be their usual obnoxious selves tonight. If they have a problem with that, tell them to fuck off and we'll see them at the next show or whatever. Got it?"

The looks exchanged between Quinn and Santana at the sudden, serious change in Tina's tone, the sharp, steely inflections in each syllable, reflect their surprise at the normally even-tempered bass player's vehemence, and Rachel doesn't miss them. She looks down, squirms in her seat. She knows full well that she's the 'special guest,' but she doesn't necessarily want anyone to behave any differently than they normally would, or treat her any differently than they would anyone else. She may be a star, but she learned a long time ago that she doesn't like some aspects of the 'star treatment' all that much.

Tina ends the call, muttering, " _Boys._ They can be so _ridiculous_ sometimes." Then she twists in her seat to offer Rachel an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that."

"Sorry about what?" Rachel asks, genuinely puzzled. "I don't mind if your other friends join us. The more, the merrier, I always say. Half the people at our cast parties after shows aren't even _in_ the cast, after all."

"Maybe, but I'm sure none of them are like Kitty and Sugar," laughs Tina, shaking her head, the blue streaks in her hair glowing faintly in the light from the dashboard. "Those two are...well, they're a handful, let's put it that way – _especially_ after they've gotten a few drinks in them."

"But don't worry, Rachel – we'll keep them under control," Quinn says, patting Rachel's arm reassuringly. She blows a bubble, lets it pop _,_ laughing softly when the exploded gum sticks to the tip of her perfect nose. "Um, _that_ wasn't supposed to happen."

Rachel smiles; it's dark in the back seat of the van, but she imagines the pretty blush coloring Quinn's cheeks anyway, and it makes her feel warm inside. The pink-haired drummer's hand returns to her arm, settles there, and Rachel doesn't mind it at all. She turns her attention back to the long, dark road stretching before them, staring out through the windshield for a few quiet moments; then she surreptitiously sneaks a glance down at Quinn's own arm, at the raised vein that travels up and down the swell of her bicep, and feels warmer still.

Santana's watching the road too, but she's also trying to keep an eye on the two in the back. Quinn is a skilled flirt, a master player, able to cast a spell on a girl with barely more than a batted eyelash, a flip of her pink hair, a subtle flex of muscle. When the bubble pops, her eyes flash to the rear-view mirror, and she's only just able to suppress a low growl at the sight of Quinn laughing, lowering her head in _faux_ embarrassment, drawing Rachel in, getting the smile she wants from the young Broadway star.

 _Damn,_ she thinks. _I hate to admit it, but Q's got skills. The girl is_ _ **good**_ _._ A smirk draws a thin line across her face. _But so am I._

"The bubble trick again, Q? Really? Is that your _whole_ game now, or what?"

Rachel's eyes leap from Quinn's arm to Santana's delighted smirk in the mirror. The raven-haired girl throws back her head and laughs a full-throated, hearty laugh, at the glare Quinn throws her way, which Rachel manages to miss amid the music of Santana's laughter. When Santana's eyes return to the mirror, Rachel finds that she can't look away. There's an intensity in them, mixed with mirth, that captivates her.

"Come on, you two. Play nice," Tina interjects, immediately seeking to defuse the tension that's rising between her two bandmates. She's seen this kind of thing escalate quickly before, and she's not about to let anything ruin the good time this night had promised. "Can you just _not_ both be alphas for once, please?"

A huff sounds from Quinn at Rachel's side. "Fine, fine. You're right, Tina. As _usual_. We shouldn't be fighting, not now. Not tonight. Not in front of Rachel."

Tina rounds on the still-smirking girl in the driver's seat. "San? Q's sent up a flag of truce. Got it?"

The smirk falls, but only a little. "Okay, okay, T. I got it." Her eyes move away, reluctantly, from Rachel's, towards Quinn, and her voice softens. "Sorry, Q. My best behavior for the rest of the night, promise."

Rachel, bewildered, turns to Quinn, watches the girl's lovely face in the on-again, off-again glow of the streetlights passing by. There's something in it, some old hurt that flashes in Quinn's expression - but it's gone almost as soon as it appears, and Rachel's helpless to interpret it, to divine its meaning. All she knows is that these girls have known each other for years, and their emotional terrain is going to be complex and tricky to negotiate, especially without a map. She makes a mental note to ask Tina about it later, biting her lip in confusion.

"It's all right, San," Quinn says quietly. "Sorry, T." Unexpectedly, she turns to Rachel as well. "Sorry, Rachel. We're supposed to be celebrating, not fighting."

" _Although_ she was going to find out how bitchy we can be to each other at some point anyway," Santana points out. When Tina whips around to glare at her incredulously, the Latina simply shrugs in reply. "What? I'm just keepin' it real, like I always do."

"God," Tina grumbles, shifting in her seat, drawing her legs up to her chest, or at least as close as she can get them. "I'm gonna take a little nap. Wake me up when we get home, okay?"

Fifteen minutes later, Quinn wakes her with a boot to the passenger seat.

" _Why_ am I friends with you two again?" she sputters in exasperation, as Quinn and Santana laugh together all the way up the driveway, Rachel following slowly, Tina running after them. They laugh and laugh, and they don't stop even when Santana unlocks the door, and the bass player shoves them both over the threshold.

* * *

Casa de Lopez is an impressive place, to say the least. Rachel hadn't even known there were any houses this big in Lima, or at least she didn't remember any from when she'd grown up here. It's beautiful, but not ostentatious; it looks lived in, and certainly is, given the fact that Santana, Quinn and Tina all live, work and play here. There are musical instruments in seemingly every corner of the place, and a black cat guarding over all - inexplicably named Tabby – who seems like a feline incarnation of Santana: all dark, watchful eyes, sleek lines and confident attitude. She knows she's an awesome cat, and expects you to know it without her telling you. Rachel wonders whether the cat gets it from her owner, or if it's the other way around. Whichever the case, the cat's clearly not going to answer the question, looking her up and down, taking her measure, then calmly returning to the meticulous licking of her paws.

"You have a lovely home, Santana," Rachel says, gazing at the walls, all covered with beautiful paintings and photographs – some of which, she notices, feature Santana and her smiling, attractive parents. Here, they're on the beach, someplace warm and tropical, with white sand and the blue, blue ocean stretching far away in the background; there, dressed in festive colors for what looks like a younger Santana's birthday party. Her father is tall, distinguished looking, with hair that's graying ever so slightly, while her mother is shorter, but strikingly beautiful, like her daughter, smiling adoringly at her husband and child.

Santana stops next to her, regards the photographs as though this is the first time she's looked at them in years. "These pictures are beautiful," Rachel tells her. "I particularly like this one. You all look so happy." She points to the one with Santana and her parents on the beach.

"That was a couple of summers ago, when we went to visit my dad's folks in Puerto Rico," Santana replies, squinting up at the large, framed photograph. Her smile is soft and warm; memories swim in her dark eyes. "It was a good time, but not always an easy one. Dad's family is big and loud and opinionated, and when they get together, there's a lot of...let's say, _energetic_ discussion about pretty much everything. I think I had a headache the entire time."

Quinn comes up behind them, places a hand on each of their shoulders. Her voice, as always, is quiet, but it's laced with something Rachel can't quite name – that old hurt she'd seen on the girl's face earlier, in the van. "I remember that summer too. I'm glad _one_ of us enjoyed it."

Santana actually flinches at the pink-haired drummer's words, and her head drops. Something passes between them, something deep and unspoken. Rachel gets the feeling that the two of them have a lot of silent conversations like this. Quinn squeezes Santana's shoulder, and then the moment is gone, punctuated by the loud whoops and hollers that announce the arrival of Mike, Sam, Kitty and Sugar.

"What _up_ , bitches?" screeches one of the girls, all red hair and goofy, drunken smile. The girl alongside her is shorter, blonde, with a compact build and a pair of coldly mocking eyes, matched by an equally derisive smirk. The red-haired girl is expensively, if not tastefully, clad in a short fur jacket (Rachel hopes it's _faux_ fur), a halter top. a pair of the tightest bright pink pants Rachel's ever seen and high heels. The blonde is more reserved, with her hair pulled back in a high, tight ponytail, striding across the room with cat-like grace in a simple band T-shirt, blue jeans and a pair of white high-top sneakers.

They're followed in by a tall, good-looking young Asian man, at the sight of whom Tina squeals happily. She leaps into his arms, laughing as he picks her up and spins her around with ease as though they're dancing – that must be Mike, Rachel surmises. The last one in is a shorter, more muscular blond haired boy with blue eyes and a pair of remarkably full, pouty lips.

Santana smiles widely as she turns and rushes forward to greet the newcomers, Quinn hanging back with Rachel, nonchalantly blowing another bubble.

"Trouty mouth! Other Asian!" she exclaims, and Rachel doesn't miss the way both young men roll their eyes at her. "Welcome back, once again, to Casa de Lopez!" Then, to the two girls, with a wicked grin, "You too, Q Two-Point-Oh, Cavity."

"My _name_ is Sam," the blonde haired boy responds with a sigh. "And for the last time, I do _not_ have, like, fishy lips or whatever you call them."

"Of course you don't, Trouty. You just keep telling yourself that," Santana jibes back, her voice as sweet as honey. "And yes, Other Asian, I know your name too, but I'm so weirded out by the fact that your last name is practically the same as Tina's that this is the only way I can even handle the trauma, so _deal_ , all right?"

Mike opens his mouth to reply, but Tina cuts him off with a laughing kiss, saying, "Don't even bother. If she's insulting you, that means she's in a _good_ mood, remember?"

Quinn laughs at Tina's remark, and the large bubble she's blowing pops. Rachel finds herself oddly disappointed by the fact that this time, it doesn't end up stuck to the tip of her nose. The feeling of disappointment is fleeting, gone the moment the hazel-eyed drummer smiles at her winningly. Whatever sadness had come to the surface a few moments before is gone again, submerged far below the surface, somewhere deep within the depths of the vast ocean that Rachel is beginning to sense is contained within her, replaced by a look of jaded amusement.

"Hey, everybody," Santana shouts, taking a bottle from Tina, then another, passing one to Quinn and keeping one for herself. "We have a very special guest with us tonight, all the way from the bright lights of Broadway, in the Big Apple itself, New York Cit- _ay -"_ She points at Rachel, motions for her to step forward and join her, wrapping an arm around the diminutive singer as soon as she's within reach, then shouts even louder: "The one and only _Ms. Rachel Berry!_ "

Quinn and Tina whoop and cheer, but the others fail to join in. The girls eye her up and down, taking the measure of Rachel in much the same way Tabby the cat did earlier, while the guys simply stare at her uncomprehendingly.

"No offense," Sam says, haltingly. "But...Rachel _who?"_

"Like, are we actually supposed to know who this refugee from the Shire is?," the blonde girl drawls, affecting an _I'm not impressed_ air, one hand on an out-thrust hip, lips pursed in a tight, thin line of dismissal. "I thought she was just your plaything for the night, S."

"Shut up, Kitty," Tina snaps. "For your information, Rachel is an actual star performer on Broadway – someone who's actually _made it_ in show business, instead of just reading about it in _People_ magazine like you do."

Rachel steps toward Kitty, extending her hand to the blonde girl. "I'm Rachel Berry," she says, letting her hand drop to her side when it becomes obvious that Kitty isn't going to shake it. "And I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, although it appears as though that feeling isn't exactly mutual. Well, that's all right. In my career, I've had to overcome negative first meetings several times, and I'm certain that this time will be no different."

"Wow," the redhead exclaims, looking at Rachel with a puzzled expression. "Do you always speak in paragraphs like that?"

Quinn's voice crackles with icy disdain from where she's standing behind Rachel. " _Why,_ Sugar? Do you need someone to go get you a dictionary so you can look up all the harder words? Because I think there might be one upstairs. Why don't you go up there and not come back down for the rest of the night - or maybe, you know, _ever?_ "

Sugar's eyes narrow, and her long, thin nose crinkles up with anger. Rachel suddenly feels nervous, fearing that a fight is about to break out. Now she understands what Tina had said earlier about these two and their 'usual obnoxious behavior.'

Then, unexpectedly, Sugar laughs, an ear-piercing cackle of a laugh, her pale skin suddenly flushed with delight, and everyone else in the room laughs along with her, except for Rachel.

"Oh, that was a _good_ one, Q," she says, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "Really good. _Epic_ , even!" She pauses to take a long swig from the bottle in her hand. "But seriously, Miss Broadway Star, do you _always_ talk like that?"

Rachel is unnerved in a way she hasn't been since high school, when the popular girls had all taken a vote on her level of coolness and found her wanting, to say the least. She tucks a lock of hair behind one ear as her eyes dart around the room, shuffling her feet softly. She's always wanted to be liked, but accepted a long time ago that not everyone will like her. As her best friend Brittany once told her, she's an acquired taste, and some people just aren't able to acquire it.

"No," she replies. "It's just something I do when I'm nervous, which is funny because I haven't been nervous since I was in the ninth grade. I had to learn how to control that, because of course it's not exactly conducive to success on Broadway - or anywhere else, really."

Santana comes to her rescue, reaching down to squeeze her hand. The gesture lets her know that everything's okay, that Santana's got her back. "And with _that_ embarrassing confession out of the way, let me explain to you losers why the award-winning Rachel Berry is here. As _you_ are clearly unaware, _she_ is the hottest thing on the musical theater scene today, and as you are just as clearly _very_ aware, _we -"_ She gestures with her free hand toward Quinn and Tina. " - are the hottest thing going here in the Lima area. So naturally, after our undersized new friend here saw us play at Will's place last night, she decided that we, being the super hot band that we are, would be the perfect partners to help her create the rock and roll album that she's been just burning to make, unbeknownst to Broadway and even her managers."

Quinn and Tina whoop and cheer as loud as they possibly can, the drummer adding additional percussion with her hands on her legs. The other girls, however, seem unmoved.

"And _that_ is why she's here, why _you're_ here, and why we're celebrating tonight. And if you still don't understand after all that?" She turns a withering glare to Sugar and Kitty, both of whom pale as Santana narrows her eyes. "Then you really _don't_ need to stay and can just kindly let yourselves the fuck out. Do I make myself _clear?_ "

The four newcomers, boys and girls alike, all slowly shake their heads, almost in unison. Apparently, Santana's wrath is something to be feared; Rachel swallows, drafting a mental note to never, _ever_ get on the Latina's bad side.

Mike raises his hand as though he's requesting to speak in class. "Um, okay. Question: _what_ is a Broadway star doing here in Lima, and _why_ would she be going to a rock show at a place like Will's?"

Before she can answer, Rachel is cut off by another voice: Quinn's. "I don't think Rachel needs to explain herself to _you_ ," the drummer says in a voice so filled with cold fury, Rachel can feel icy crystals forming all along her spine. Each word is a serrated blade, sharpened to an Arctic edge. _Oh my,_ she thinks. _Quinn might be even scarier than Santana when she's angry._

"No, no, Quinn, that - that's quite all right," she stammers. "I don't mind. You see, Michael – may I call you Michael?" He nods, hesitantly, completely unsure what to make of this short, olive-complected, slightly exotic looking girl who's dressed as though she's been living in an 80s rock video.

"Thank you. Now, you see, I grew up here in Lima with my two gay dads, and they've remained here, still living in the house where I grew up, even after I went to college in New York City and then ascended to Broadway stardom in an unprecedentedly swift fashion. I am currently in between shows, so I decided to take advantage of the opening in my schedule to visit my dads, to whom I owe so much. However, there's only so much _Scrabble_ and _Pictionary_ one can take, even with the most loving of parents, and a quick perusal of the local newspaper's arts section informed me that the show at Will's place would be the most fun and entertaining thing I could possibly do in the area. So I decided to check it out, and I am _so_ glad I did, because these three girls – Santana, Quinn and Tina – are absolutely _amazing,_ just completely enthralling."

Rachel looks at each of the three girls she's just mentioned, smiling brightly, and each returns the smile. She knows they trust and believe in her and the embryonic vision they have for their immediate future; now she's got to try and get the boys on board. Not that it would truly affect things if they weren't; but it would be nice, she thinks, if everybody in the girls' world were on the same page regarding such a potentially life-changing project.

"So, of _course_ I want to work with them, as Santana said a few moments ago," she continues, her confidence boosted by the girls' encouraging smiles. "I'm ready to let go of the Broadway songbook and... _rock_ a little."

"Wait. Hold up. That – that is a _lot_ of information," Sam interrupts, holding his hands to his head as if to keep everything he's just heard from spilling back out his ears.

"Yeah," Mike agrees. "So...you want to be a rock star now?" he asks. There's a slightly suspicious tone to the question, as though he's not quite sure of Rachel's sincerity, or her motivations.

"Is there something wrong with wanting to try my hand at something different, something outside my normal milieu?"

"Mil- _what?"_ Sugar mumbles around another swig from her bottle of beer. Kitty merely rolls her eyes, showing what she thinks of Rachel using such a pretentious word.

"Um, I...I guess not," Mike answers, shrugging. "I just want to know that you're not going to, like, rip them off or anything. Like, use them and then not pay them, or not give them credit for their work, something like that."

Internally, Rachel fumes at the young man's words, even though she knows he's just trying to look out for his friends – especially Tina - and if the roles were reversed, she would probably ask the same thing. She can't help but feel insulted at having her professional integrity questioned in such a heavy-handed manner.

Still, she manages to keep the hurt from her face and voice as she answers him. "I assure you, Michael – everyone – that is _not_ something I would ever do. On Broadway, we acknowledge _everyone's_ work, from the stars of the show right down to the ushers and stagehands. A successful show is always the result of a team effort, and I assure you that Santana, Tina and Quinn are full and equal partners in this endeavor, and will be _credited and compensated_ as such."

"Okay, then. I'm good with that," Mike says. His voice and body language still indicate some level of wariness, but Rachel decides that's as good as it's going to get right now.

"Uh, yeah. What he said," adds Sam with a small, uncertain smile. "As long as you treat them well, I guess I've got no problem either."

"Excellent, Trouty," Santana says, cutting off Rachel's reply. "Not that _your_ opinion matters, anyway. In any case, think that's enough interrogation of our hot Broadway princess for now. Wouldn't you agree, Q?"

"Totally. How about you, Tina? Think it's time to get this party started?" Her tone is light, but Rachel sees the warning in her eyes, directed at Sugar, Kitty, Mike and Sam: _Y_ _ou start any more shit with Rachel, and I will come down on you._ _ **Hard**_ **.**

"Definitely," Tina says, pushing the power button on the stereo, instantly filling the room with sound. "Come on, everybody!" she yells over the sudden din. "Let's _rock_ this place! _Wooooo!_ "

The rest of the night passes in a blur of raucous laughter, moving bodies, high volume and loaded glances. Rachel dances closely with both Quinn and Santana, gets to know the curves and lines of their bodies far more intimately than she would have imagined, given the fact that they've only just met, but she goes with it. The party is far removed from the elegant soirees in high-rise penthouses and post-awards show banquet halls to which she's become accustomed, but she loves every second of it. She imagines this is what all those parties she'd missed in high school and college were like: loud, sweaty and messy. None of which were things she'd ever imagined liking for an instant before this - but suddenly, at least for tonight, she's more than okay with all of it.

By the end of the night, she's completely exhausted, falling asleep on Santana's couch with the pink-haired girl on one side of her and the dark-eyed Latina on the other, Mike and Tina wrapped in each other's arms on the floor at their feet. Sam's lanky frame is sprawled out in a recliner at the other end of the room, while Kitty and Sugar are slumped over a table in the kitchen, bottles and cups strewn all around them.

And as the sun rises over Lima, Tabby the cat looks on forlornly, wondering which of these ridiculous humans is going to feed her, and when. She stares at them in feline amusement for a while before finally giving up and making her way over to the couch, deftly avoiding the various obstacles in her way – a shoe, someone's T-shirt, innumerable bottles, cups, paper plates and napkins. Nimbly, she jumps onto it, then climbs over Quinn and Rachel's slumbering forms to curl up in Santana's lap, letting out a contented yawn before falling asleep herself.


End file.
